


In Erin

by Persephone



Series: Days of Wine and Roses [1]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: All Saints' Day, Brotherhood, Brothers, Ireland, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Connor, many things have changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Erin

**Author's Note:**

> Set during their exile in the second film.
> 
> _Edited June 23, 2013_

There was so much night here. So much night in Ireland that when he thought of its implications for more than a minute his mind did an about turn and went looking for whiskey.

Sometimes, however, while calmly listening to the sound of Murphy’s hard breathing in the fine, chill air, he forced his mind to stay where it was, with him, floating aimlessly among the stars. At such times he asked it to not be afraid, neither of the past nor of the future, as only the immoral and corrupt had cause to fear. And had he and his brother not proven to the world that they were neither?

He looked from the black skies to his brother lying next to him, face-down, fully clothed in the fresh clean grass. Murphy was more passed out than asleep. And even in sleep Murphy’s expression was tight and troubled. He dropped his head back down with a heavy sigh.

They could not go on like this. Murphy was going to turn into a real alcoholic and he was going to remain locked in his mental cage.

His eyes roamed the night sky.

Three thousand miles to the west, Boston lay far and silent. Awaiting their return, and yet seeming in no hurry to present them with a second chance at their lives. He himself was in no hurry, that was fact, and Murphy—though his eyes would narrow and his lips would tighten at the mere mention of the city—would stay wherever he stayed.

But being in no hurry did not, by any means, mean feeling no longing. Aye, Ireland was their home, having their hearts and souls buried in its vast plains. It had welcomed them with no judgments and with no need for explanations, and here they were safe.

But in Boston they had lived. Body and spirit, head and fist. And for that life which he had shared with his brother, he felt a longing so profound that sometimes catching a breath proved a great difficulty. That life, in which days had been meaningless hours of tweaking the cords of their bond for the simple pleasure of watching Murphy react. Or had turned into a whirlwind hurtling by while they earned themselves a living.

But nights— nights had been the very definition of living. There they had taken to pubs and street corners and back alley doorways and had left their bootprints on the walls.

In Boston they had lived as though their lives had been theirs. Here, life was different.

Choked with meaning and brimming with importance, here on the edges of the farm, around their farmhouse and in town, they had learned the meaning of vigilance, of distance and of silence; the importance of invisibility. In exile had learned the laws of extradition to its last loopholes and all over their farmland and house they had stocked weapons enough to repel an army. Distant from everyone in town, silent and watchful, they had their instincts teed and their weapons eyed.

Days on the farm— tending the sheep, cleaning after the sheep, shearing the sheep. 

Days had become naught but hours for contemplation, a time to worry. Certainly more than enough time to grow out their hair and beards, to blend in, the latter of which had nearly caused him to scratch off his face waiting for his to grow out. So much so that for fully six months he had fantasized that Murphy, sick of hearing him complain, would finally tie him down to a bed, straddle his bare chest, and brutally shave him with a blunt hunting knife.

Aye, it had been a bona fide fetish while it had lasted.

But it had been three years now, more than enough time for their condition to become second nature. And yet it had not.

And with Murphy, things were different now.

Murphy had not obliged him his small fetish for the sake of it. Not even for the perverse pleasure Murph would have normally obtained from it. His brother was now almost without humour, showing constant distress and short-temperedness.

For Murphy the shock of their exile had begun with a disorientation. It had started a year after they had come to the farm and arose sporadically in Murphy like a post-hypnotic suggestion. It would happen, then it would pass or it would not, and Murphy would be left attempting to carry on as though nothing was wrong. He would wake up in the dead of night muttering about “the fucken college boys” spoiling St. Paddy’s Day at Doc’s, or the need to pay Rocco back some debt he owed.

He himself was going through no such thing, but he lived every day with so many things on his mind that it made perfect sense that Murphy would suffer the symptoms while he himself bore the illness. They didn’t talk about it, only mentioning it once when it had first started and never bringing it up again.

But after the disorientation had come the all-swallowing fear, the one that was never far from the surface. That one of separation. This, both of them at that time, and still now, shared it. Neither of them had dared bring it into existence by so much as mentioning it, but it had unfolded and settled inside their hearts. And not since being twelve and in primary school, abducted and separated for six hours in cardboard boxes by a gang of bullies, had he felt anything like it. It was _asphyxiating._

In Boston he could easily go for food and not return for hours, until Murphy would come find him in a bar and there would unfold the rest of their night. But at the farm Murphy’s eyes had gone black at the first hint that Connor might be gone for hours into town for supplies while Da made Murphy stay and watch the house.

He had told Murphy what he thought of that, that first time, that Murphy was acting like a fucken psychotic bitch. But that had gotten Murphy’s fists up and him a black eye, so he hadn’t repeated it.

But he too was not spared. The fear was making him do strange things. He would catch himself scrambling on weak legs into the woods, when he realized all of a sudden that he hadn’t seen or heard from Murphy for ten minutes after Murphy had gone in there. Murphy’s narrow-eyed smirk on that first morning as he had come upon Murphy leisurely taking a leak against a tree had shut him up for days. Another first for him.

And so they woke up together, shared their meals only when dropped from the same ladle, used the same bathwater—something that he, Connor, would have protested to Mary’s high heaven about in days gone by—until more and more, when they closed their eyes to go to sleep, even shared the same space in dreams together.

Their lives had evolved into a different key. A lower, more intense one. And when they fought it all came to the fore, these fights over nothing. Front and center, harder than ever before. He had always been able to hold his own against Murphy, even though Murphy had the hardest smack of anyone he had ever come across, but lately he was losing most of their scuffles. And he was at a loss as to how to respond even to himself.

And so nights on the farm— putting equipment away, putting dishes away, waiting for the “Good night, lads,” that would free them to start their hours of true vigil. 

A vigil of endless hours into the night, talking under the stars, drinking whiskey from the bottle, and listening to the slumbering sheep.

And then, comforting each other.

Intensely, so intensely now, as though not a single moment of it was meant to taken lightly anymore. Perhaps it was the distance to their father, the old man sitting carved in stone at the head of the dinner table each night, his white hair cascading around his head like a wildly misplaced halo. But he knew their father wasn’t really the issue. It was them.

They were losing their ability to remain two people. To think like the men they were instead of the compounded person they had become. He did wonder whether they would survive it.

Beside him, Murphy stirred, with sudden, typical violence.

His eyes stung as the pain from the whack to his right cheek took its sweet time passing. It had been Murphy’s forehead, but seeing as it was made of cinderblock, the collision barely elicited a grunt from Murphy while he himself blinked back tears.

Now Murphy was face-first into his neck, breathing softly, deeply. Half of Murphy’s chest was pressed down on him, his right arm trapped underneath his brother’s unnaturally dense body and fast losing all feeling. It put an end to all contemplation.

“Fucken— Christ,” he whimpered, pulling his shoulder and shoving as hard as he could to try and dislodge Murphy. He had to do so without without waking him, as waking Murphy would get him a couple of slaps before he could put an end to it. He failed miserably.

He gave up and fell back, and accepted that he was getting soft in his forced retirement. Where were the days when he would have screamed “Fire!” and split his gut laughing when Murphy scrambled to his feet and jumped on the horse, dragging him along, and halfway to the farmhouse before realizing he had been outwitted again?

Murphy shifted now, slipping an arm around, and underneath his body, pulling him closer, and whispering his name.

There was his answer.

Time was, knowing Murphy was dreaming about him would have brought a well-deserved smirk to his face and kept it there for the rest of the day. He supposed that day might return, but these days it simply made his heart bump and go sliding to the floor.

Things were so different now.

Slowly, he felt Murphy’s arm begin to constrict around him...until he was finding it difficult to breathe.

“Jaysus, Murph,” he choked. Suddenly he realized Murphy was awake and pulled back to get a better look. “Are y’awake?”

“Yeah,” Murphy murmured after a moment, testily. “Who could sleep through the racket yer making thinkin’ so fucken hard...”

“You’re one to talk. You’re on me so fucken tight you can feel m’ cells splitting. Move a little, will ya?”

“Ah, fuck you,” Murphy replied, and pushed up on his elbow. His shag of dark hair, which had grown out past his shoulders and now matched his wild-man beard, dropped forward in a heap as Murph squinted down at him.

“Where the fuck d’you want me to move to, Connor? Huh?”

His eyes involuntary swept the vast plain around them.

“Well, if you would just—”

“I ain’t fucken movin’!”

Murphy sat up slowly, irritably, swearing and rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes.

He remained lying as he was, watching the mess of hair fall over Murphy’s face.

“Christ, Conn, I was having a fucken good dream.”

“That ya were.”

Murphy didn’t catch the smirking note in his voice. Murph couldn’t have, since his brother didn’t have it in him to ignore it if he had. And certainly not these day. Murphy looked around.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“Across the way from where we were last night. Same place we’ve slept every night for the past two months.”

Murphy stiffened for a moment, probably waiting for that batshit voice inside him to tell him whether or not Connor had slighted him. Nothing came, and Murphy resumed rubbing his eyes, apparently too tired to engage him.

“Where the fuck are the sheep?”

He lifted his chin. “That heap of off-white over there.”

Murphy didn’t turn to look. Instead he turned over and laid back down, burying his face in Connor’s side. “Look after ya fucken sheep, Conn,” he whispered, his voice full of a misery that was masked by anger, and went back to sleep. Soon he heard hard breathing once again filling the air.

They didn’t belong here.

But here they would remain, inside the sheer living purgatory of it, sitting cold on horses and pretending to look after sheep while actually looking for nonexistent shadows in the tree line. 

The days would pile on and the years with them, blurring his mind. And Murphy would burn with anger, hopefully enough for the two of them.

He closed his eyes and blocked out the twinkling lights, and he must have fallen asleep.

When he awoke Murphy was sitting up beside him, the wild hair falling down his back. He couldn’t say whether the look looked good on Murph or not, he just wanted to be assured he’d always find his brother in there. After a moment he lifted and placed a hand on Murphy’s back.

“Jaysus fuck, Connor,” Murphy whispered softly, bitterly, but almost wondrously. He was staring out into the dark open plain. Murph then turned dark eyes back on him. “What the fuck are we doin’ here?”

He shook his head, holding Murphy’s eyes. 

Then slowly he sat up, settling beside Murphy. The wind was not so bad, kicking up only ever so often, and being halted in its cold tracks by their shearling coats. It caught their rough, over-long hair and raised it around their heads, chilling their scalps and making them shudder.

Murphy slowly turned, leaning in close, and stopping a fraction of a second before their lips touched. Murphy's breaths fanned his lips and he held still, waiting for Murphy to do it, to make life sweet again. Then Murphy pressed forward, scraping their dry lips together, then did it again. On a third time, despite the cold, cold wind, he parted his lips.

His eyes were closed and he felt his body come alive as Murphy’s tongue slid into his mouth, igniting warm life in him. He let the kiss linger tenderly, allowing himself to feel the new, unfamiliar sensations with Murphy.

Sensations of drifting among a sea of stars when Murphy kissed him. A loss of control, saved only by the anchor of Murphy’s touch. Like a kiss from a prince in a fairytale. 

He’d be in trouble if Murphy ever got a whiff of his thoughts, but something told him Murphy already knew. 

He wanted to wait, as ever, for the feeling to pass. But it never did.

Murphy gripped his sweater and pushed him backwards onto the chilled grass. There they laid for a long time, touching and kissing with a new intimacy. It was strange, surreal. And more than a little embarrassing. But he felt himself arching off the ground nonetheless, eyes closed and panting softly as Murphy touched him, swirled and dipped his tongue into his mouth.

Between their prison of denim and shearling, beneath a heap of clothes and a tangle of wild hair and limbs, the found each other. And as Murphy gripped his shirt, pulling him in as he thrust into him, pouring his name into his skin, he knew it would have to pass. This need that seemed to tear at the matter of their souls and feed on these fears in a new, uncontrollable life.

It would have to pass. But for now he held on to Murphy’s rough, delicious weight, twisting ever tighter under the feeling that he was going to die if he could not secure the release of his brother’s need.

Murphy twisted his grip into the jacket, pulling him closer still, and gasping into his neck. Then Murphy reached a cold, wet hand down between their bodies, taking hold of him and stroking hard and steadily, and soon he was spurting all over Murphy’s hand, his arms around Murphy’s back, his legs spread wide, wider still, losing all sense of time and place. Murphy kept his hand around him, dropped his forehead to his and began grinding steadily into him, his quiet cries his only indication that he was coming, and coming. “Connor,” he whispered. 

“Aye, Murph,” he whispered back, holding him steady.

Soon Murphy’s movements slowed, and sooner still they were both still. Murphy’s harsh breathing filled the air.

And silence returned to Ireland.

He ran his hands up Murphy’s back, kissed the warm sweat on his cold forehead, and the side of his face, letting him know that he could relax. Murphy slowly pulled out of him, then buried his face in his shoulder, and in a minute he realized Murphy was passing out fast. Despite the jacket covering Murphy’s body, Murphy was bare-assed in the cold, and would likely not enjoy the results in a thrice.

But pointing it out would get no response, and in the middle of the night he would be the one to blame for not caring about his brother, for not caring about anyone but himself.

Another fight over nothing. But one he was going to do his best to avoid for his brother’s sake. 

Worn out and confused, he was willing to keep on for his brother’s sake.

He reached over as far as he could, to the other side of Murphy’s body, and managed to catch the edges of the thermal blankets they had brought with them. 

“Conn?” Murphy mused softly, a quiet sneer in his voice. “When are ya gonna stop acting like a fucken girl every time I fuck ya now?”

He pulled the blankets over their bodies.

“Can’t say ’s I know, Murph,” he replied with no irritation or shame. “Maybe some day soon.”

But Murphy was already asleep.

Laying back, he knew they would have to adjust their positions sometime in the night. 

But they were good at that.

And for as long as it took they would also keep adjusting to their new, suspended lives, until the day when their father would stir. And then their waiting would be over.

_End_


End file.
